


Hunter

by shut_the_jongup



Category: B.A.P
Genre: Dissociation, Fluff, M/M, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 04:29:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13356513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shut_the_jongup/pseuds/shut_the_jongup
Summary: He is ice, he’s becoming ice, turning into ice. He wants to stand up, because now that he is ice he can’t slip on other ice, right? Or would he slip more?





	Hunter

The heater broke.

The heater broke and now Junhong’s hands are cold. His hands are so cold, and his fingernails feel thin like they could curl away and peel off like paper. Over the purpling tips of his fingers.

But he doesn’t want his fingernails to fall apart. They’re important. They protect his fingers, that’s why they’re there. And anybody’s hands would look strange without fingernails. That’s just a fact. A hand without fingernails is a starfish with knuckles.

Rain turned to sleet turned to ice turned to snow. The freezing rain that carried the transition between sleet and ice weighed down the power lines and broke the heater. Well, broke everything electronic. But the heater’s malfunction is the most noticeable.

The weather people named the storm Hunter. Why are people naming snowstorms now? Or, was it just a winter storm? It had been a rainstorm, and then a sleetstorm, and now it’s a snowstorm. But It’s winter, so can all of those storms be combined into one? A winter storm?

Junhong thinks the word ‘storm’ is strange. It doesn’t have meaning anymore, not after he thought it in his head so many times.

But the storm doesn’t matter. He’s cold. He sits on his bed, propped up but two pillows and wrapped in a bedsheet, and blanket, and a comforter, but it’s not enough. He really misses actual warm air. And warm people.

He’s trying to distract himself by writing a song. But he can’t even read the words he’s writing anymore his fingers are so cold. The pen is slowly dying, too, steadily with the feeling in his hand, the ink flows lighter and lighter until it stops and he stops trying to write words that he can’t read.

He misses his home. He misses his family and his dog and his room. But more than that he misses Jongup. But that doesn’t really make sense, does it? Because while he’s been away from home for nearly a year now, Jongup has only been gone for a few hours. He guesses that’s what love does to people.

Or maybe he just gets lonely too fast.

Both?

Probably both.

Junhong lets the pen fall out of his hand and closes the notebook in his lap. He curls further into the blankets around him and lets himself fall on his side, sliding down the pillows until his head is on the mattress and close enough to the window that he could press his nose against its glass.

It was eleven in the morning last he checked, which honestly could have been hours ago. Either way, it’s dark enough outside that it could be past dinner time now.

The wind blows the snow just so that it catches in the screen of the window, steadily building a rising wall up to block Junhong’s view of the street, far below him. Eight stories, to be exact.

When will Jongup be back?

His hands curl into fists around themselves unconsciously and he nuzzles his nose so that it nestles in the sheets, head bent forward so that his chin is almost touching his chest. He closes his eyes and imagines that he’s outside, laying in the blankets of snow instead. It swirls all around him before gravity makes it land on his eyelashes and the tips of his toes, laying over him in more and more layers, more and more blankets until he can’t feel the cold anymore. Until the flakes stop melting when they touch his skin, because now his skin is even colder than they are, and he is ice, he’s becoming ice, turning into ice. He wants to stand up, because now that he is ice he can’t slip on other ice, right? Or would he slip more?

“Junhong.”

Something touches him and the ice around him shatters and he opens his eyes, which don’t have snow on them.

Did they before?

No. No, because he’s inside, on his bed next to the window in their bedroom and he had let himself float away again.

But he can’t see. It’s strange, because usually his eyes work just fine. Maybe there’s ice over them? What if his eyes were made of ice, frozen and crystal but still perfect spheres.

“Junhong.”

Something touches him again and he blinks his eyelids over his eyes that aren’t made of ice. No, they’re made of… what are eyes made of? Something less cold than ice.

Whatever’s touching him keeps touching him, and he realizes it is warm.

Where is he again?

On a bed.

His bed.

“Junhong.”

Their bed.

He remembers that he has a nose, and he uses it. The stuff around him smells nice. It smells like the pine trees outside and cinnamon toast, but not the kind with raisins in it, because he hates those. Who hates raisins? Junhong doesn’t hate raisins. He thinks they’re just fine. Who hates raisins?

“Jongup.”

Junhong rolls over and blinks a few times, then grins up at the man standing next to him. “Jongup hates raisins.”

Jongup instantly grimaces. “Raisins are gross, okay? Don’t– why are we talking about raisins?”

Instead of answering him, Junhong grabs Jongup and pulls him onto the bed. He lifted the blankets he has wrapped around his body and wraps them around Jongup, too.

Jongup jumps when Junhong’s hand touches his skin. “Oh, my god, you’re freezing!” He immediately cups Junhong’s hands in his own. “Why are you sitting next to the window, you dummy?” He shakes his head at him and then pulls Junhong closer so that they’re hugging.

Junhong pouts, even though Jongup can’t see with his face pressed into his neck. “I wanted to watch the snow.”

Jongup sighs and Junhong shivers as the warm breath thaws his skin.

“Then let’s watch the snow.”

**Author's Note:**

> idek man i was feeling down bc of things and im in the middle of a snowstorm named hunter right now so here ya go


End file.
